Bathrobe Bliss

The long weekend just gone (here in Australia, at least) was to celebrate Queen Liz the Second's birthday. Lord knows the actual date the old chick was born, but we got this Monday off. Yeah, I want the land of Oz to be a republic and force the Women's Weekly to discuss any other Royal family but the Pommy one but like all decent Aussies, I'll never knock back a free holiday.

We were supposed to go camping at the attractively-named site 'Little Desert' national park which is near the just as attractively-named town of 'Nhill' (pronounced 'nil'). Unfortunately, the Melbourne party got an awful combination of gastro, colitis and coeliac complications and some of the Adelaide contingent got colds. The trip was cancelled, and I think that the folk in each city breathed a small sigh of relief that our 'tents' were now warm, solid homes with showers and had toilets that didn't need a 200m trek wearing a full outfit and carrying a torch, towel and bathroom bag to get to.

What I've since discovered is an old truth that has previously escaped me: bathrobes make great outfits. All day.

When there's no school bell, bus timetable or work deadline to meet, it's such bliss to wake up when one feels like it and just dag around the house in one's pyjamas. In fact I'm sure that the Queen would be doing just this on her real birthday. Pottering around on the computer, having that second or third Gaggia-machine coffee, sneaking a few squares of chocolate out of the fridge, reading the paper one section at a time and watching a few episodes of Survivor Fans V Favourites via DVD (because &^%$ing channel nine still hasn't played it here).

Then, maybe, if one feels like it, venturing out to the shed/home gym for a run on the treadmill and a punch of the old mini tonsil and mega body punching bags, all to the sounds of an ancient Hoodoo Gurus or Madness's Greatest Hits CD. Then a shower by 5pm and straight into some warm trakky daks and ugg boots. Which, are essentially, another version of a bathrobe and pyjamas

Yep, it's nirvana:

1) Remain in pyjamas until 4pm workout;

2) then change into not-fit-to-be-viewed-by-innocent-members-of-the-public gym gear for 60 minutes; (old grey leggings with an ever-increasing hole in the crotch, white t-shirt now yellowed with age and with just 'IK' instead of 'nike' remaining, a sportsbra with as much engineering prowess and underwire as the Sydney Harbor bridge and sneakers that smell distinctly of parmesan cheese and bathroom mould).

3) Have a shower and slip into one's most elasticated and waistband forgiving trakkie daks and ugg boots.

Best camping trip ever.

Some facts about me

This meme is courtesy of Ariel, author of the excellent blog Jabberwocky. These always give me ideas for longer blogs, articles or other such piffery.

Apparently, there are rules to adhere to:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player tags 5 people and posts their name, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they've been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

What was I doing 10 years ago?

Married to Love Chunks for three years and found out I was pregnant. This was a real shock to us, as I'd been diagnosed with a non-cancerous brain tumour a couple of years earlier (thanks to weird vision and increasingly painful and recurring migraines). The tumour was located at the base of the brain, right behind the eyes, rapidly growing a prolactinoma that convinced my body that I was:
a) already pregnant;
b) needed to breastfeed; and
c) didn't need to have any periods.

Tumour got under control, but reproductive system too fried to work. No babies for us, so we decided that we were happy anyway and could have decent holidays instead. And we did - a fab time in Malaysia where I found out that it wasn't the trots that was making me feel so ill, it was a baby. Even my endocrinologist was stunned and I formed the basis of a discussion paper from the Royal Melbourne Hospital Endocrinology Department!

Living in Heidelberg Heights, trying my damnedest to stop from throwing up on the train, at the train station toilets, on the escalator, in a taxi, at Love Chunks, in church on Christmas Day, whenever I smelt laksa....

Five snacks I enjoy in a perfect, non weight-gaining world (also known as 'Kath Land'):
1. Lindt Lindor Balls (especially the black, 60% ones)
2. Haigh's dark chocolate frogs, almonds, sultanas, violet cremes, cappuccino bars, lemon myrtle centres, speckles, bilbies, shiraz truffles....
3. Cadbury 70% Old Gold
4. Whittakers dark chocolate orange
5. Gelati from Cibo, Norwood. Their baci, lemon cheesecake, orange-n-pinenut, coconut, lemon, orange zest, pistacchio, rich chocolate, white chocolate, strawberry, apple, mint are the best I've ever tasted. We'll often walk in there after karate class and endure the curious stares (three weirdos in white religious pyjamas) to get ourselves three medium coppas.

Five snacks I enjoy in the real world: (or really my favorite snacks 6-10)

6. Um ... all of the above when I'm being bad.
7. Oranges. I have one every morning and feel terrible when I don't.
8. Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee
9. Wasabi peas mixed in a container with Salted Broad Beans
10. Raw carrots.

Five things I would do if I were a billionaire:

1. Let Love Chunks do the study he'd really like to do and buy the business he'd really like to buy if money had never been an issue for him
2. Pay off all the mortgages of my family and my best friends. When shelter (either rent or mortgage) is removed, it gives people a lot more spare cash to do things with.
3. Go on a world trip. Then select one country at a time and travel it really well.
4. Donate to all of my worthy causes
5. Work with dogs, even if it was just to help them out with admin work, because I don't think I'd have the strength to deal with the evil results of cruelty first hand.

Five jobs that I have had:

1. Cucumber polisher (see http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2008/05/joyless-jobs-growing-up-if-we-ever.html)
2. Apricot cutter (see http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2005/09/she-works-hard-for-money.html)
3. Debt collector. Not fun, but funded my travels.
4. Public Servant (Dept Employment, Education and Training; Environment Protection Authority, WorkCover). Ministerials, reports, speech writing.
5. Assistant Bank Manager, ANZ. This suited me about as much as a mortar board and lab coat does Paris Hilton.
Now: a writer. Poor, but happy.

Three of my habits:
1. Worrying about things before they happen, thus wasting energy and sleep.
2. Picking at the skin around my fingernails until they bleed (I know I know, it's terrible and somehow I. Must. Make. Myself. Stop.)
3. Judging other people and then feeling guilty about it.

Five places I have lived:

1. Murray Bridge, South Australia. Yes, it was a highly imaginative name, wasn't it? We were by the Murray River and there was a ....... bridge. Here's me in my gorgeous costume in 1979 that I wore to celebrate the bridge's 100th birthday. Heady stuff. I won the prize which was the most un-fun thing ever - a massive box of toothpicks and a bottle of glue. Called something like 'Imaginopicks' or some such.














2. Aberdeen, Scotland. Dad was an exchange teacher for a year, and we swapped houses and jobs. The first six months were hell for me - starting highschool where I could barely understand their accents, let alone what Mods or Skinheads were and why they disinfected the asphalt every afternoon.... All our free time was spent travelling and I'm sure Dad wanted to throttle me when we were standing in York Minster and my 12-and-a-half year old self said, "Seen one cathedral, seen 'em all...."

3. Hackney, Adelaide. First place where I was required to (learn how to) cook, clean and budget after enduring two years of Lincoln College. Finished uni there and got my first job as a Graduate Trainee Bank Manager for the ANZ bank. Used to smell the Weetbix made by Sanitarium on the next block or the poo from the zoo when the wind changed. We three gals had our 21sts there as this photo will prove.














4. London - in 1991 and 1992 during my two year visa. Got jobs as a live-in nanny in Hampstead (only lasted three weeks), a live-in housekeeper in Finchley (6 months), bartender and kitchen hand at the Savoy Hotel (moved to a bedsit off Baker Street), kitchen hand at a mental hospital (2 months in Surrey), debt and home repossession officer for a large bank (rest of the time). Made some great friends, had many great holidays, enjoyed much great cider and rolled off the plane two stone heavier two years later.

5. Beulah Park - Adelaide. A share house with other uni students and my two brothers. This is where I met Love Chunks and getting ready for our first date (after circling each other for six weeks) was an interesting experience as I had to wait for him to get out of the bathroom. And he knew that his date was most certainly going to invite him in to her home afterwards!

Since finding Love Chunks, we've lived in:

Flemington, Melbourne - in a tiny 2 bedroom flat in a concrete 1960s block. Close to everything and allowed me to walk to Wormworld in North Melbourne to do more thrilling debt collecting. The highlight of the day was to look out the window and see who was 'shopping' at the brothel next door or the sex toy distribution factory across the road.

Fannie Bay, Darwin - in a townhouse partly paid for by Love Chunks' employer the Weather Bureau. Got eaten alive by mozzies in the outdoor spa and had some green tree frogs take residence in LC's gym equipment.

Wulagi, Darwin - Got ourselves a weather bureau house and bought an above ground pool. Spent every spare minute in the pool because even going to the letter box during the build-up and summer was the height of endurance.

Heidelberg Heights, Melbourne - No darling, not Heidelberg WEST, but HEIGHTS. An old fifties clinker brick and our first mortage of, *gasp* $105,000. Not close to anything decent to walk to unless seeing drug deals down at the Bogan Mall or buying Sara Lee seconds is considered high level entertainment. Wished we could afford Heidelberg proper or Ivanhoe but..... as compensation we had a lovely family next to us where, if I was sitting in our laundry toilet, I could hear the mother call out to her sons (Damien appropriately enough, and Dion) - "Come inside for dinner ya f**ken little arseholes."

Dad (of one of the sons) got well and truly shickered one night and wifey locked him out. He smashed a window, fell inside and kicked the living daylights out of his own furniture. We and several other neighbours called the police, who rocked up with a divvy van and loads of capsicum spray. Meanwhile Father-of-the-year had thrown up on himself and taken all of his clothes off and chucked up again. The police kicked the door in and threw around enough capsicum spray to deforest the Botanic gardens.

Dad was led out, completely starkers, handcuffed and thrown onto his front lawn in sub-zero, mid-winter, 3am Melbourne temperatures. Wifey called out, "Just wash 'im down with the fricken' hose!". His eyes were obviously killing him and he was coated in enough vomit and damp grass to resemble a homosapien Chiko roll and whined to the cops, "Lay off guys, you're embarrassin' me." Love Chunks and I witnessed the scene by kneeling on top of our kitchen sink, peering through the blinds with the lights off. Baby Sapphire slept through the entire performance. Wifey took him back two days later.

Murray Bridge, South Oz - for three months whilst we both worked full-time jobs in Adelaide and house hunted every weekend. We were grateful to my parents for letting us stay, but there's a photo of me at the time (that I prefer to keep hidden) that shows how truly exhausted I was. Quit EPA Melbourne on Friday; drove to Murray Bridge on Saturday and started work in Adelaide on Monday. I resembled Rumplestiltskin's secret half-sister.

Trinity Gardens, Adelaide - Since Christmas 2000. A 1924 bungalow, solid, full of character and pretty well perfect for us. We've found our home.

Groovy folk I want to get to know better: (A nice way of saying TAG and because I'm interested in their answers)

Tom - http://tomshideaway.blogspot.com/
Baino - http://bainosbanter.blogspot.com/
Davey - http://stumblor.blogspot.com/
Myninjacockle - http://theloadedblog.blogspot.com/
Ashleigh - http://ashleigh.id.au/
Deep Kick Girl - http://deepkickgirldownunder.blogspot.com/

Technicolour Yawning

Waaay back in the dark mists of time when I was pregnant with Sapphire (whom we named Lucy Lawless Lockett in-utero) I suffered ‘morning sickness’ all damn day and for the entire 40 weeks. Earlier today I was sorting through my old files, and found this diary entry from that period. Although perhaps it's best forgotten?

14 weeks

The train trips in the mornings are the worst part of my working day. I feel queasy when I get up, and am unable to force myself to eat anything. Friends and well-meaning colleagues have all suggested that you’re meant to eat a cracker before you get up (makes for itchy sheets) which should quell the queasiness, but it just hasn’t appealed to me.

I have what is normally a ‘refreshing’ one-and-a-half kilometre walk from our house to the train station. It helps me to wake up and also get a bit of free exercise in each morning. Now, however, I walk in agony, chain-sucking boiled sweets the entire journey - I’m normally on my fifth by the time I shove my ticket into the validating machine. Each colour and flavour is carefully selected before I leave home - orange or raspberry ones today?

Is morning sickness directly related to a sudden increase in sensitivity to smells? We all know that trains aren’t exactly akin to fields of lavender, but never before had I noticed the BO, morning breath, smelly feet and general unsavoury ponginess of the average train carriage. Even aftershaves and perfumes seem over the top and dominating. They almost take on an active physical presence - so much so that it seems as though the carriage has a vague brownish fog of odour inside.

I rely rather heavily on the air sickness bags that I’d been prophetic enough to take from the plane on the way home from Malaysia (where we 'made' Sapphire), and always make sure that I have a couple in my back pack at all times. So far, I’d been sick in the train station toilets, but not actually on the train.

By today, my precious stash of airline bags had been used up and the closest thing I could find (apart from a sealed Tupperware container) were those clear plastic snap lock sandwich bags.

The various offensive smells of the train were mingling hostilely around me, and the rocking motion of the carriage was encouraging my stomach to do some unwelcome swirling of its own. Only six stops to go - I was positive that I could last the distance and heave somewhere on the platform or in the station toilets - the blue lights installed there to deter drug users would make my pallid face look particularly attractive.

Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip and under my eyes, and my stomach began to develop it’s now-familiar bilious heartbeat. Reluctantly, I reached into my back pack and felt for my plastic bag. It was within easy reach - good. Another stop went past. Another milestone of non-vomit. I touched the back again for good luck, fingers sweating against the plastic.

Three more stops to go. I hastily unsealed the top of the bag. No time for prayers or to wait for doors to open now - “BWAAAA!” - straight in, no spillage. This would have been something to have been proud of if I was in any mood to care. I heaved three more times, wiped my mouth with my hankie, and sealed the top of the bag again. It was then I looked up from my lap and noticed the stares of my fellow passengers.

The blush I experienced was so deep and so red that I felt as though my internal organs were on fire. I muttered my explanation to the passenger on my left, “morning sickness,” but the look he returned was so devoid of sympathy I pretended to rummage for something in my back pack - my dignity had a good chance of being in there, next to my work shoes, buttered vegemite crackers and additional glad plastic bags. I could not look anywhere or meet the stares of anyone. The entire carriage was disgusted and their collective opinion seemed to be a derisive ‘Alcoholic.’

It was then that I longed to have a big belly and be hugely and obviously pregnant. My size 12 trousers still fit me and no-one offered me a seat when all were taken as I looked like everybody else. I just didn’t feel like everybody else.

But what was I to do for the remaining five minutes of my journey? I forced a contented smile on my burning red face, and primly clutched the sick bag in my lap. I could hear a faint ‘sloosh sloosh’ of my vomit each time the train entered a tunnel, and realised for the first time that perhaps clear plastic wasn’t the best way to hide the ‘ol regurgitated peas and carrots from my fellow passengers.

The smile remained on my face for the longest five minutes of my life. I would prefer to do nude cartwheels down Burke Street Mall than go through that again. I'm now take the 7:09 train to Spencer Street instead of my usual 7:18.

Ah the memories!

Danger Danger Will Robinson - there's a full on RANT heading our way!

Geez it's disheartening to be a reader sometimes. According to the enlightened, cashed-up, metrosexual, pro-feminist, militantly male readers of FHM magazine, a third of them want to marry a virgin. Yes, when they grow up. *Sigh*

Caroline Marcus of the Age writes that "Of 57,000 men polled by men's magazine FHM, 28 per cent hoped to marry a virgin, while 41 per cent wanted a bride who had five partners or fewer, and just 5 per cent wanted a bride who had slept with more than 15 men.

The survey, which ran on the magazine's website for two weeks last month, attracted mostly men in their late 20s, who had jobs and were university educated."

Hmm, would these survey sods be smug little Generation Y Gits who still live with their parents, don't pay any rent, don't help out around the house and still have their meals cooked and washing and ironing done by Mummy perchance?

Tertiary educated? What did they study at uni - abstinence and chastity? No, wait - that's what the girls should have been studying, according to these unworldly wankers. But hey, aren't these the same girls that they would have pursued, caught and slept with (albeit in a beer bong fug) at uni? The same ladies that, several years later, these boofhead blokes assume are not only also grown up, educated professionals but have somehow magically converted back to being virgins?

Marcus goes on to point out - but hey, let's face it, any FHM readers would have turned the page after the first paragraph in order to read their horoscope and see if they understand the day's Calvin and Hobbes comic by now - that findings from the Australian Longitudinal Study of Health and Relationships show that only 11% of women and 5% of men in the FHM readers' age group had slept with just the one partner.

Instead, the Australian Longitudinal Study of Health and Relationships shows that Aussie blokes had an average of 9.5 bedtime buddies (the 0.5 was a fellow FHM reader during their 'experimental' phase) and women had 4.7 (the 0.7 was an FHM reader after staying the night and holding a semi-intelligible conversation with their random root).

So whilst a lot of females might be flocking to the cinemas to see an increasingly haggard Carrie and Co get it on with shoes and shags in 'Sex and the City', their blokes are NOT going to actively pursue such gals for longer term activities such as marriage, motherhood or weekend trips to Bunnings.

It also seems to say:

a) some men might lie a teensy weensy little bit about how many women they've bumped uglies with; or

b) there's a much smaller pool of women who shag a great deal more blokes than they're prepared to admit to in surveys; or

c) a bit of both?

Why the emphasis on virginity? Do you buy a house purely from the photo in the Real Estate section? A car from seeing it flash by for five seconds on TV? And what if you survive the courtship, spend your parents' live savings for the bloated wedding reception and find that you're both duds under the doona? Whatever happened to 'try before you buy' and 'practice makes perfect'.

I look to my own experience for evidence. Even after a relatively low-key wedding in my parents back yard, no speeches, $12 worth of material for my outfit and 60 guests, we were so exhausted by the end of the night that our ~ahem~ 'sexual celebration' was a fairly perfunctory effort done only out of duty. It certainly wasn't the most memorable, erm, session, and to think it might be the first foray into fooling around for someone is so very sad, tragic and desperately wrong.

But what do I know - half of marriages end in divorce anyway.

So girls - the first question you ask a bloke who catches your eye is not 'What's your name' or 'What do you do for a crust', it's 'What magazines do you read?'. If 'FHM' is the answer, fling your alcopop into his eyes, angrily thrust the empty into his crotch and get the hell out of there.

End of rant. Off to find Love Chunks and give him a big, grateful and heartfelt hug.

Regressing without regrets

The other morning, after dropping our kids off at school, Guy and I walked back to our respective houses and got talking about how we as parents dressed these days.

He was in long cargo shorts, Crocs and a warm hoodie whilst I hadn't even showered yet. I was in my running shoes, leggings (the athletic kind - not the Lindsay Lohan lesbian lecher kind), t-shirt and polar fleece jacket with hair like a windswept wheat field and cornflakes still stuck in the corners of my eyes.

Maybe Seinfeld was right: he once said that fathers tend to stick with the clothing style representing the year they were happiest in - in his own Dad's case, it was 1963. For my Dad, it was 1975, sensible v-neck jumpers, shirts that came out of a plastic box, long trouser shorts, knee high socks and leather shoes that only needed a blob of sauce on the top in order to convince me that they were, in actual fact, pasties.

"Seinfeld's right," Guy agreed. "But I think I also dress like it's 1975. Not in the fashion sense perhaps, but in the sense that I was nine then, and wouldn't have looked in a mirror for weeks and wore whatever Mum provided. I was always dressed in something that could deal with skateboarding, mud fights and bike riding." He looked down at himself, and realise that he was still wearing an outfit that would enable him to do just that.

Guy's brow furrowed in concern. "But how far can I take this? I mean when does it get to the point that Sarah thinks the way I look is way beyond a joke?"

"I dunno," was my meditative response. "But isn't that why we can dress like it's still 1975 - because we've found people who love us for who we are and don't care what we look like?"

Guy recalled his mother sewing practically every outfit he wore, bar his levi's cords that meant that he could never sneak up behind anyone without the tell-tale 'swish-swish-swish' sound betraying his arrival. She had one of the groovy overlocking machines and ventured bravely into tracksuit and windcheater territory. "One was a bright blue number, but the neck band was so tight I looked like a Pekinese pup by the time I squeezed my head through."

The sun was drying up the dew on the roses next to us as we reminisced. We both laughed at the tartan ensembles we willingly wore. Guy had a pair of trousers that were a brave mixture of tartan and plaid, consisting of every colour in the rainbow. "Our mothers liked them because they were loud enough to hide a multitude of stains," I said.

Guy gave me a 'Hey, you're right, I never thought about it like that' kind of nod, adding, "That's why by Friday night they were so stiff I had to be lifted out of them."

Of course when hysteria of the Bay City Rollers finally reached Australia in 1975, our canny mums just added a layer of tartan to the bottom of our ankle freezer jeans to extend their lifespan. We thought they were cool, but had to wrap thick rubber bands around our ankles if we wanted to ride our Malvern Stars on the footpaths without our flares getting caught in the chain. Having a strip of cardboard pegged on to the wheel spokes to provide a real motorbike noise upped the Hip Factor by at least a thousand percent.

Long live 1975 and the lack of worry about what one looked like. What was your year?

Me, 1975. When not in school uniform, I was wearing my older brother's hand-me-downs - old windcheaters (dark green), corduroy trousers, 'kickers' brand shoes and skivvies. Lots of skivvies.

And if it was really cold, a parka. "It needs to cover your bottom so that you don't get piles," was my mother's constant refrain. I was never sure what 'piles' were, but it seemed as though I'd avoid suffering from them if I wore a singlet under my skivvy and made sure I tucked both into my trousers before going outside to play in the sandpit or spread mud around the outside of our garden's burning bin (incinerator).

Christmas, 1975, showing my Mum the cool new 'transistor radio with ear piece' that Auntie Barbara gave me.

One of the rare occasions I wore a dress outside of school times, but I do remember thinking that Mum's choice of gold velour top qualified her as a true sartorial GODDESS in my admiring eyes, and perfectly complemented her flowery apron and white ribbed slacks.

Australia might have just been getting over the shock of the The Dismissal, yet I was still sad that the free bottles of milk at school program had been cancelled.

This ain't 1975, but 1979, when tracksuits ruled. By the time our big trek to Queensland and back had ended, this red-and-blue number was festooned with sew-on patches like The Big Banana, Gilltrap's Yesteryear World, Daintree Butterfly and Green Island Underwater Observatory to fully represent what a widely travelled and cultured kid I was.

As Guy reminded me, wearers of these ensembles would put their life into their hands if they dared stand near a naked flame or even a Vulcan bar heater. Many innocent polyesters died to make this outfit a reality.

Photo Fables

I've spent the day with Sapphire's year 3/4 class at Nirvana Farm in the Adelaide Hills and then on to her classmate Sam's property for cubby house making with wild bamboo, blackberry bushes and gum tree branches. Therefore I'm slightly sunburnt, have very little voice and am dying to sit down, eat more chocolate and have another glass of wine. How her teacher deals with those 29 hopping mice on espresso every day astounds me......

I'm stealing this 'pictorially speaking' idea from Baino. Seems about all I've got the strength for tonight. Sapph's in bed, Milly's snoring in her beanbag at my feet, Love Chunks is watching the Crows Vs Essendon and Skipper's in his hutch eating a late supper of carrot and capsicum and I'm about to eat and review some Lindt 'cookies and cream' balls. All is relatively right in my corner of the world.

What is your first name?




















What is your favourite food?















What high school did you go to?







Kincorth
Academy
Aberdeen
Scotland
1981












Murray
Bridge
High
School
'82-'85










What is your favourite colour?



Blue.
Even better if
chocolate
has something
to do with it.












Who is your celebrity crush?













It's been John Cusack ever since seeing 'The Sure Thing' in 1985; solidified by 'Say Anything' in 1989 and forever sealed with 2000's 'High Fidelity'.



















Favourite drink?



and H2O.











Dream holiday?

















New York - with money no object, then a relaxing recovery at a 5 star beach resort: anywhere with clean sheets, cold drinks and a kids' club.














Favourite dessert?

















What do you want to be when you grow up?

Happy, with a healthy and happy family. Financially OK. Working with dogs, or having a dog work alongside me....



















.... with hopefully some of the spirit, wisdom, kindness, originality, personality, perseverence, genuine interest in others and irreverence that my Grandpa had.


















What do you love most in life?




























What one picture describes you?

Feature Garages

The other day I was walking around the 'hood with Milly the dog, pausing to let her sniff each tree for her boy buddies' scents or try her luck at finding a dead bird under the leaves when this scene of devastation and demolition faced us.

The house next door to it is a fairly good replica of the house they were knocking down: a solid brick, 1940s-style house that was in good condition, on a quarter acre block with the original groovy wooden windows and sandstone frontage.

It was certainly in much better nick that the (older) and much-less respected house further up our street:

This place is infamous in ~ahem~ 'my parts' for an owner seldom seen but who clearly adores old Ford Lazer cars. At one stage he had five bodies of varying condition in the front garden, and the bush to the left of the picture also housed about 40 chickens. People who live either side of him have described him as being about as cheerful as a hillbilly with a hangover so it's a perfect case of the home suiting the owner.

There are only two car bodies now (the other is at the head of the driveway), but the 'look of love' is maintained via the backblocks fence, the wood placed where some glass in the window should be and a verandah so cracked it groans when it rains. As such, no-one will cry when Mr Chuckle Trousers finally sells up and the place gets knocked down.

But what will replace it, or the 65 year old sandstone around the block? Another interminable brick-venereal with a feature garage? Or worse, three of them crammed together and enticingly advertised as 'Low Maintenance City-Fringe Courthard Homes for the Busy Career Couple'?

Having a gander in my stolen copy of Adelaide Matters didn't do anything to assuage my fears:

Have a gander at this little pearl. Dontcha love the flat roof and no eaves, except above the two upstairs windows so that the end result is a house that looks rather astonished at its own ugliness? Payneham or Painham?

No verandah for shelter from the sun or rain and air-conditioning required all year round. Add a thin layer of cement render that will:

a) crack within six months; and

b) require the poor owner to repaint the entire outside of their house every couple of years...

and voila! Dream home worth knocking over a WWII classic for! A bright blue door reminiscent of council flats via TV's the Bill just adds to the aura of success and style. Grrrrrr.......

Even nobby old Burnside is falling victim to the Feature Garage folly. But wait - there's a two storey box stuck on the back so that humans can live in the house's arse-end and the car resides at the front! Lovely.

But hey, at least this one has a verandah, albeit a tiny cage-like vestibule. But it doesn't have any eaves on the front windows or on the back air slits. No green stars for this design. Grrr grrr *snarl* grrrrr...

Now What. The. F**k. Is. This. Unlike the Burnside bunker directly above, this joint doesn't even bother with any front rooms or windows, it's all garages - nay two garages. Oh and a little door hidden under a welcoming gas-chamber installation.

So they drive their two petrol guzzlers off the road and straight into their custom-built hangars, and when safely installed, they continue to wend their deluded way through the small intestines of the building to the rectum at the back for living in. Ni-i-i-i-i-ce.

This design'll stand the test of time won't it? I'm sure it will be standing for far longer than the WWII home that got smacked flat last week..... Think of the generations of children that will be raised here - "Mummy mummy what's that noise?" "Shut up and polish the cars kid, looking out at the world outside aint for the likes of you"..... Puts a whole new meaning on neighbourhood gossips twitching their net curtains - they'd need a mighty quiet garage door remote to get their fix of scandal these days.

So economists tell us we have a severe housing shortage and that people are erecting whatever they can afford at the cheapest price. Fair enough but the houses I'm seeing are in city-fringe suburbs that aren't being paid for by first home-buyers or low income earners. These shockers are being bought and sold by people earning good wages and usually driving two cars. How many of these butt ugly buildings house at least one 4WD whose only off-road action is when Mum overruns the kerb at footy training?!! Grrrr, grrr, *snarl*, grrr, chomp...grrrr.....

The only thing that cheered me up about the demolition was the graffiti painted on the side of the dozer - You Suck. Yes, you do. I hope that all the greedy renovators end up living in a Feature Mock Georgian Garage Box themselves with faulty air-conditioning and a family of narcoleptic snorers, throat-clearers and fast-track farters that can be heard all-too-distinctly through the wafer thin veneer walls...

Say G'day to Skipper

Never underestimate the massive strength of Pester Power by an eight year old, dear reader. Especially when it has been occurring on an hourly basis - every day - for the past year. I tried everything to dissuade our now nine-year old daughter Sapphire, telling her the usual lines like:

• We'll see
• You're probably allergic to them like you are to cats - do you want your eyes to swell shut again or your Mummy to get a 'visit' from the child protection agency?
• I need to chat about it with Dad. No not right now, but when he's at home and we have time to discuss it in detail. No, I'm not going to make a specific appointment.
• Hmm, why not find out more about them on the internet?
• Didn't you say that their teeth get really long and they bite?
• True, Milly could bite too, seeing as she's a dog. But she's a friendly one, more likely to lick than nip. Isn't she enough for you? Oh yes, true again, she seems to have chosen me as her 'Alpha' but she likes you too. What's that? *Sigh*, well yes, when you're the one feeding her she does.

....all the way to the hardest, meanest most unfair one of the lot that I'm sure most parents will use out of sheer desperation and for an almost primal need for some respite from the pestering: "We need to see you doing more chores at home, behaving better at school and not answering back every time we ask you to do something and then maybe - just maybe - you will be ready for the responsibility of having a pet of your own."

And you know what the little so-and-so did? She completely blew my prediction out of the water. Instead of giving up the campaign for manners, tidyness and tolerance after a couple of days, she persevered.

"Mum, I'll feed the chooks for you," or "Hey Mum, I've made my bed and tidied up my desk, do you want to see?", and "My school bag is unpacked and I've taken the tissues out of my culottes before putting them in the hamper." Each day I was accosted with her bright face, her hopeful eyes and a desperation to prove herself worthy; trying so hard to keep up with her chores and even create new ones. The final stick for this camel's back was her "Have you spoken to the teacher yet? She wants to tell you about an award I'm getting for academic achievement and for being a caring leader." Poo. Bum. Bugger. Shit. Fart. Sapphire was really, genuinely, 110 percentedly doing her damnedest to earn herself a rabbit reward.

Then the magnificent Monique read my previous blog about the issue, and did absolutely nothing to strengthen my case for 'no'. Amanda Blair had recently interviewed an outstanding lady called Sally, owner/goddess/carer/marketer/nurse/rescuer/adopter and champion of all things rabbit oriented.

OK, so maybe it was worth a call.... And unfortunately, it was. It was obvious from the two conversations I had over the line with Sally that she was a passionate, kind, generous and genuine person who wanted to make sure that rabbits were treated decently and, if lost, not suited or mis-treated, be removed and given to good homes. I made an appointment for Love Chunks, Sapphire and myself to go and meet her on Sapph's birthday.

To write that my daughter was 'beside herself' is like saying that the Warner Bros Road-runner liked to get from A to B fairly quickly. Every few minutes she'd rush up and hug me, saying "Oh thank you Mum, thank you for trusting me enough to have a rabbit, I can't wait until Friday, oh thank you!" I'd have to clear my throat and blink away the surprise tears that threatened to reveal the chinks in my serious-and-sensible-and-sombre parental demeanour. I was probably as excited as she was.

And here she is, reverently holding her new bunny boy Skipper, looking for all the world like the proud mother of a newborn* baby.

She spent most of Friday holding him, patting him, stroking his ears and talking to him. Love Chunks earned The Coolest Dad Ever award by deciding that Skipper can come inside whenever Sapphire is home on the weekends or from school, and can stay in his hutch for meals and bed times.

Skipper has grown in confidence since Friday, when he blasted out bunny beans from his butt faster than a slug gun. Luckily, they seem to be just as dry and I wouldn't put it past myself - in a bleary, no-coffee-yet state, to mistake them for coffee beans and shove them into the Gaggia.

It was a huge relief to find that Milly was fascinated and not angered by the new addition to the family. She likes to lick Skipper's ears and he doesn't seem to flinch or mind in the slightest. She also seems to have developed a taste for the bunny beans she's found on the floor; so as revolting as it may seem, it's a bit of a cleaning bonus for us less-than-fully-houseproud pet owners.

It feels like I'm being attacked by the PMS Poltergeist a couple of weeks early, because it's made me all unavoidably teary. Sapphire was in her room making a video of Skipper familiarising himself with her - the tell-tale sounds of a few scattergun shots of bunny-butt beans and the scrabble of tiny claws on the floor - and Sapph's clear voiceover: "Is this a dream? Are you finally here with me? Did my Mum and Dad agree to have you? This has been the best birthday ever." Geez, there's never a tissue when I need one....

As I sit here in the spare room tapping away on the laptop, Sapphire's in the living room watching the Narnia DVD with Skipper on her lap and her head leaning on Love Chunks' shoulder whilst he is stroking Milly's warm velvet ears. It is such a beautiful scene. I'll ruin it by trying to describe it without resorting to corny cliches. Instead I think I'll stay here until the movie ends so that the damn tears don't sproing out again.

* Obviously this is not something we hope for at her age, and if Love Chunks had his way it would be never.

Stuff what I've learned me good so far this year


Last night I was keen to get to my karate lesson - the orange belt and its star studded, arse-kickin' glory is nearly within my clammy grasp - and thought that everything was set. Love Chunks had got home from a long day at work; Sapphire was drooped over the arm of the sofa, too tired to come; and I'd left them a huge pot of my delicious pumpkin soup. Milly was fed; the dishwasher doing its dazzling duties and I was cutting quite a swathe in my freshly-ironed white Gi.

Several minutes later, I paid my five bucks, reached into the carry bag to pull out my membership card and sparring gear only to find that I brought my knitting along instead. Both bags were expertly made by my sewing goddess mother and I'd confused the two. So, while my Nin Tai ninja buddies were busy doing some butt-kickin' bunkai, Mawashi Geris and a few Oi Tsukis to scare off any pensioners stripping nearby, I was contemplating just how I could incorporate a few mean rows of purl and cast-off knits on size four needles before giving up and going home.

This born-blonde boneheaded behaviour got me thinking. Surely there are a few things I've learned so far this year? I mean apart from avoid any public speaking invitations, seeing a rescreening of 'Hey Hey It's Esther Blueberger' or eating muesli with a blocked nose? It turns out I've also learned that:

• Gum nuts wash surprisingly well when hidden in the pocket of a pair of school culottes, but gum leaves and tree sap (also referred to as 'amber' by our daughter Sapphire) are a different matter altogether
  
• Fake tan looks fake. And the human ankle - even if untouched by Garnier Golden Glow or equivalent somehow soaks up also nearby fake tan, and remains a fluoro-orange colour for weeks and weeks.
  
• Dogs don’t like natural yoghurt. Or baked beans. Stale bread rolls are objects to bury in a deep hole, not chew, and fish oil for canine arthritis does not improve their breath one iota.
  
• A pale bathroom floor attracts more pubic hair, towel fluff and lint than Chewbacca applying Head'n'Shoulders during his acid rave dance-a-thon.


• You should never ever drink a Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee if it’s even one second beyond the use-by date. Unless you actually prefer your teeth without enamel.


• According to our (almost) nine year old, blue Slush Puppies are the sixth food group.


• Having long nails is a let down. People complain of being scratched when you only mean to touch them and yucky gunk collects underneath them (the nails, not the scratchee).


• Crockery sets are always sold in odd numbers at second-hand shops – threes, fives, sevens. Our wine glasses - survivors of 21sts, engagement gifts, wedding presents and K-Mart trips, also end up in odd numbers.


• Channel Nine are a bunch of heartless stinky bottom burps for not televising the latest series of Survivor which my karate sensei, Damien, tells me is the best one ever.


• Dog poo outlasts chewing gum and super glue for sickening staying power when it comes to scraping it off the bottom of a brand new pair of sneakers.


• Sandpits contain invisible magnetic properties for any person under the age of ten, especially when wearing a clean school uniform or their best clothes. In fact anything with socks, pockets and cuffs.


• No matter how they are talked up by the chef, labelled or presented, sausages for dinner are still utter crap and better flung out onto the footpath where they belong.


• One white tissue, inadvertently included in a dark washing load, has the ability to spread itself to at least 30 times its original size when distributing its white waste over woolly socks, polar fleece jackets and my nice black tops.


• Dog farts don’t blast out the windows; nine year old daughters’ do. And they are always inordinately proud of this.


• Here in Oz, divorcing a celebrity not only gives you more money but also guarantees fame, a slot on ‘Dancing with the Stars’, undeserved advertising work and a ghost-written magazine column. Having talent, a secure love life and intelligence does not.
  
• Kids still love being taught how to finger knit, plant broad beans and make Anzac biscuits.


• The nicest smell is that of your own home, when you’ve just opened the door after being away. Unless you’ve just burnt the toast or left an uncleaned tin of tuna in your fliptop bin.


• Your nine year old can beat you in every single game of Cluedo.


• This same child can out-read, out-count and out-write every other child her age in class but still cries when she drops her ice block onto the ground.


• Your maternal love is strongest when the nearly nine year old is fast asleep, unmoving and completely silent.


• Your love for your husband is strongest when he is holding you, massaging your migraine-racked temples and offering to empty your sick bucket.

And yet I still can't figure out which way to turn the key in order to open our back door, how to make a decent milk froth from our coffee machine or see any joy in gardening. So much to learn, so little time.